


I Will Still Be Here

by FactorialRabbits



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Fuuin no Tsurugi | Fire Emblem: Binding Blade
Genre: Family Feels, Family Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, I am not sure I have ever written anything else so self-indulgent, Or more comfort from canonical hurt, Perceval Cecilia and Klein are also here but doing less
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-10
Updated: 2019-07-10
Packaged: 2020-06-25 21:50:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19754464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FactorialRabbits/pseuds/FactorialRabbits
Summary: The hour is late, the victory celebrations are in full swing, and Douglas would like to introduce his King to someone.Maybe, just maybe, there is still hope to be had.





	I Will Still Be Here

**Author's Note:**

> I am struggling to find time to write, so this happened. This is very not what I usually write, but is also a gift piece from myself to myself. I also wrote it on a bus and have only run a quick spellcheck, so be warned, but thought I may as well share.
> 
> It is also pure self indulgence. Maybe you will like it too?

The Lycian League has won, and the celebrations are in full swing. Most of young Lord Roy’s league have joined the nobles of the capital, as drinks flow and it grows late in the night. In the morning, those not local will begin heading to their own kingdoms and homes exhausted and hung over. It is late, now, and King Mordred only remains at the party for courtesy. Maids refill his wine from time to time, but otherwise he just sits on his throne and watches. Maybe he should leave soon? Before people are truly drunk and the day truly gone. It is hard enough to awaken in the morning when he sleeps early, these days. His luck would not hold to stay late.

The chairs of the Queen and his heir remain glaringly empty, as do the holes in his heart. They would have loved this party, his Cerridwen and his Mildain. And he would have enjoyed it too, if only they were here with him.

But they are not, and they never will be again.

From his place, he can see the moment when young Klein approaches Douglas, and whispers something in his ear. The General nods, it seems with a very serious sort of sigh, before approaching.

Douglas is always serious, but the formality on his face is excessive even for him. Mordred waves him closer.

“Your Majesty,” General Douglas kneels before the King as he speaks, the effort of it on old legs visible. Sooner rather than later, he will retire. For the heirless King, that is no option. “May I trouble you to come with me before you retire? There is another from among Lord Roy’s army I wish for you to meet.”

Mordred cannot think of anything he wishes for less than going to meet more people, but he is far too tired to bring himself to refuse. Douglas asks so very little of him, and has done so very much, that he cannot bring himself to refuse him.

“There are more? Then lead on, my General. It grows late.”

“He is…” there is a hesitation in Douglas’ voice as they move from the ballroom. The moment they are outside of the public eye, the general took his arm for support. “Our bard. He was injured some years ago, and sometimes - as tonight - it causes him trouble. Weakness, temporary blindness… But he wished to speak with you before we moved on again, and thought you may wish to speak of events with someone less… Energetic.”

Mordred could see the pain in Douglas’ eyes, and a secret still being kept, but did not ask. He does not have the energy to care. It makes some sense, he supposes. As King, he is supposed to be up to date on happenings, and even a sick bard would surely still have been making close observations.

Even if he had wanted to, though, there is not time for questions. Douglas guides him to one of the smallest meeting rooms, more a parlour than such. If he were young enough to feel surprise, then he would feel it at seeing Generals Cecilia and Perceval, not to mention young Klein, flanking the robed and hooded man. The bard is carrying a harp, holding it almost protectively to his chest, and looks up when they enter.

So do the others, but the bard is notable in that he does not look to the door. And in that he is the one to speak, “General Douglas. Is he-?”

The King’s heart skips several beats. That voice… That voice! 

“My King, may I present to you Bard Elffin, of the Western Isles,” it is Cecilia who gets up, bowing and introducing him.

The bard bows, does not wait to be told to stand, then hesitantly brings one hand to his hood. Klein reaches out, gently stopping the hand a moment, while Perceval whispers something in his ear.

Cecilia is still knelt on the floor.

“I think we should have this conversation seated,” Douglas takes control of the situation, in a way Mordred has forgotten he even could. 

When he makes no objection, even Cecilia picks herself up from the floor and makes her way to a seat. Perceval and Douglas remain standing, Douglas by the King’s hand, and Perceval by this bard-with-the-stolen-voice’s. Just as he used to do for Mildain, so long ago.

As such it is Perceval who takes the bard’s hand, leading him to Mordred’s feet and having him kneel. Mordred cannot be doing with the ceremony; he just wants to escape this ghost.

The bard seems to try to say something, but nothing can be heard. Instead, he reaches to his hood again.

This time nobody stops him, and he pulls it away to reveal golden hair.

Not just a stolen voice! Why must he be hurt in such ways? Douglas has never been so cruel before, the rock that held up his life as one by one his family were taken away. The one who, at the end of everything, was always still there.

But then this bard looks up. His eyes do not make contact, but that green… That impossible shade he looked for and missed so badly.

Mordred chokes back a sob, a frail, hesitant hand reaching out. It touches the bard’s cheek, and he knows it to be real, “M-Mildain?”

He can barely whisper the name, unspoken since the funeral so long ago. This must be a dream, a beautiful dream he will soon be awoken from as he sleeps in his throne.

The bard - no his son - rests his face against Mordred’s fingers, eyes blind but desperate, searching for something.

“Please forgive me, father.”

The words break Mordred’s heart. He leans forward, pulling this dream of his son into his lap. From there, he hugs him tightly, nestling his boy’s head against his chest. He does not ask for an explanation. Not yet, not when it would break the illusion. This impossible dream.

"Mildain! Mildain, my Mildain," he repeats the word, rocking them both. “By beautiful, darling Mildain."

"Father, I know you must have questions, if-"

"Hush," the king weeps for years of sorrow, pressing a kiss to his son’s head. "Let me hold you, my son. Let me have this. Do not yet force me awake."

"It is not a dream, your majesty," Cecilia tries to explain to him. “It is quite real; General Douglas saved him.”

He dismisses her words. It does not matter, he does not care. The generals and young Lord seem to notice this; Cecilia excuses herself, while Klein and Perceval move to guard the door. Douglas remains, as ever, at his side.

He weeps, and he holds his son one last time. Maybe this is his death? Maybe his son has come to take him on?

But then, where is his lady wife? Surely she would be here too?

He knows it not befitting of the King, but he is no king here. He is a broken man, offered hope he knows is false. He cries deeper into his exhaustion, eventually to sleep. As his consciousness drifts away, the last thing he is aware of is the lips of his dear Mildain pressing a familial kiss to his cheek, and the whispered words, “sleep well, father.”

* * *

The next morning, he awakens in his own bed, fully expecting the night before to be a dream. And yet, when he looks, his son lies curled on his bench, covered in blankets and a soft pillow under his head.

Mordred’s heart leaps, to see his boy still there. Either the dream was no dream, or he dreams it still...

Dawn-light flickers over the fair features of his only child, as Mildain's steady breathing ruffles the hair that has fallen on his face.

Mildain… His child is still there. He must do something before he cried again. Mordred goes to Mildain’s side.

Reverently, afraid of breaking the moment, of discovering an illusion, Mordred strokes his old fingers against his son's cheek.

Mildain stirs beneath the touch, grumbling something unintelligible. But still he pushes himself up, rubbing at his eyes.

This time, when they open, bright green eyes search a little, and focus upon Mordred’s face. And Mildain smiles, a wiser, more reserved, smile than he would have given before, but Mordred thinks it is perfect none the less.


End file.
